


Provenance

by crowleyshouseplant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, F/F, Gen, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleyshouseplant/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam leaves Sarah Blake behind, Sarah goes on her own hunting trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Provenance

Sarah Blake tried to stay in the auction business after Sam left her with a kiss and a glance goodbye behind his shoulder. But it didn’t last long, especially when she was reading the obituaries one Tuesday morning and saw something that was just weird, unlikely, physically improbable. And then, just because she had a hunch, she went to the library, checked out older newspapers and saw the same thing happen again, over and over, a pattern of weirdness and ugly deaths that had to be stopped so that some other poor kid wouldn’t die just because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So Sarah told her dad that she needed a few days off to take care of some things. She didn’t graduate with honors for nothing, so it wasn’t really that hard to research the area and figure out who the spirit was. Took even less time to figure out where the bastard was buried.

The only hard part was digging up the grave. Sam and Dean hadn’t even considered letting her help, and she hadn’t argued because they’d obviously done it before and time was of the essence so she had just sat back and watched, and figured that muscles didn’t come packaged like that for nothing.

But this time she was all alone, a shovel swung over her shoulder, the night dark and slightly misty with fog. She had on a jacket because it was cold, but after the first five minutes of shoveling dirt, she had already shrugged out of it, so hot, muscles burning and throbbing with the strain of lifting dirt and earth over her shoulder.

When she sweat, it rolled off her forehead and dripped into her eyes, stinging them. She wiped her face with her hands, forgetting they were gross with dirt, and got mud on her cheeks and nose. Her shirt stuck to her skin, streaked with earth. It got into her boots and ground in between her toes. It was everywhere. And she was nowhere near finished, not even half done, and her breaths hitched in her lungs, her muscles shivered with desperate pleas for her to just stop, jesus christ stop the punishment, the torture, but the grave needed to be dug up and she couldn’t give up, she just couldn’t.

When her shovel hit hard wood, Sarah froze, then her body crumpled, folded, buckled with laughter that ached in her abdominal muscles, and Sarah didn’t know if the wetness on her face was from the early morning mist or sweat or something else. She forced herself to her feet with her shovel and scraped the rest of the dirt away. She bloodied her fingernails ripping up the rotted coffin. She scrambled from the grave and, with shaking hands, tossed buckets of salt onto the skeleton below her. She drenched it with gasoline. Dropped a lighter into the hole and watched it burn.

When she returned to her hotel room, she slept for a day and a half. She could barely move when she woke, but it was a good burn, a good ache, because when she read the obituaries, nobody else had died from the vengeance of an angry spirit. Something like pride flushed beneath the aches and sores, and it still glowed in her skin and her face when she returned home. Dad asked why she was smiling, and she just said that sometimes people were allowed to have nice feelings without a reason, and he just rolled his eyes at her.

But a few weeks later, traveling with her Dad, she read the papers and saw another weird death, another death that reeked of the supernatural. And she said to her dad that she was really sorry, but there was something she just had to take care of in the next town over and that she’d meet up with him later.

She did, and it was a little easier to dig the grave this time because she had started working out in the mornings, to be healthy, to be ready for when something like this snuck into the papers, into her life.

When she finished the job, when she relaxed over a beer, she slipped out her cell phone to find angry texts waiting from her Dad. Where the hell was she? She shouldn’t be galavanting off in the middle of nowhere to do god knows what. She flipped the phone closed. She could deal with him later.

But then she overheard a couple of tourists talking about something that had scared them, drinking in memory of a good friend who had died bloody, and, tongues loosened with beer, they were more than willing to talk to Sarah about it. When she returned to her car, she didn’t get on the highway that would bring her home, but went off to find the thing that had killed the tourist. She told her dad she wouldn’t be back for a few more days.

Later that week, Sarah fired her first gun and missed for the first time.

The monster tried to rip her face off and almost succeeded.

Sarah, too frightened to breathe, to think, to do anything but run and run and run some more until her heart gave out from the stress, from the pressure, trained her gun again in the direction of the monster and fired. She didn’t miss this time, but it wasn’t dead.

She emptied her clip, and somewhere along the way, she must have hit the heart or the brain by pure chance because it wasn’t moving anymore and, because the familiarity of the ritual was soothing, she salted its body, drenched it in gasoline, and watched it burn.

Later, when she went to the hospital, the nurse told her she was lucky her eye wasn’t taken out.

The first time Sarah looked in the mirror, she saw jagged gashes stretching across one side of her face, her eye just barely escaping the long trench of torn skin. She squinted into the mirror, and the shredded muscles on one side of her face ached at the movement.

“Is it going to scar?” she said.

The nurse said yes in a lot of words that weren’t exactly necessary, as far as Sarah was concerned.

That night, the temperature dropped, and the kids in the nearby pediatric ward said that there was something scary under their beds. The nurses passed it off as kids being kids, but Sarah decided to take a look just in case.

It wasn’t just kids being kids and, after Sarah Blake checked herself out, not one of the kids ever complained about the big scary thing again. When they were given crayons and papers to help them pass the time, they drew a woman with dark hair protecting them, a woman with dark hair gripping something big and slashed with fangs with her two fists, a woman with dark hair in armor and a sword on a big white horse.

Sarah Blake never intended not to go home. But she just never found her way back. Stories pulled her across the whole of the United States and back again until she forgot what it meant to get up for an eight to five job, until she forgot how her feet felt like in five inch designer heels, until she forgot how her hair felt long and heavy on her back after she chopped it off when too many monsters kept grabbing hold of it. Her hands were hard with callouses, new scars marred her once perfect skin, bruises faded, making way for new ones.

Her dad stopped calling her home every few weeks. But he never cut off her access to her trust fund for which she was grateful.

One day, she pulled into a dusty parking lot of the Roadhouse. She’d heard of it before, that it was something of a hunter hang out. She only found herself there because it was on her way and she was hungry.

When she went to the bar, the woman behind it dropped a beer in front of her and said, “Hunters get the first round on the house free.”

Sarah looked from the beer to the woman, who gazed at her with crinkles around her eyes, lips almost smiling—but there was something else there too, a kind of pity, and Sarah hoped to god that it wasn’t because of the side of her face that wasn’t as pretty as the other one. “What?”

“It’s on the house, sweetheart. Drink up.”

Sarah shrugged— “Alright then. Thank you—” and took a long swallow. A girl with blonde hair slipped in beside her, stuck her hand out. “I’m Jo,” she said.

Sarah smiled at her, returned the greeting.

“How long have you been a hunter?” Jo said.

“I don’t hunt occupationally, just occasionally,” Sarah said. “I work with my dad in the auction business. Eventually I’ll get back to it.” The words surprised her—but it was true. She traveled towards home except when something bigger and darker and in desperate need to be taken care of called her elsewhere. She frowned into her drink.

Jo looked Sarah up and down, a smirk on her lips. “Really? I hope you lie better on the job than you do here.”

Sarah shook her head. “Yeah?”

“You’re carrying a shot gun. You’ve got salt ground into your skin from when you’ve made your own rounds, which I bet stung like a bitch since your knuckles are scraped to hell and back, like you were the one digging yourself out of a grave instead of the other way around. But even if you were in the longest, softest evening dress, Mom and I’d still know you were a hunter because you’ve got that hardbitten look in your eye. Every hunter has it.” Jo slid closer on her stool towards Sarah. “My dad had it.”

Sarah looked down at Jo and maybe saw what she was talking about, then she took another swallow of beer. Jo played with a knife in her hand and Sarah said, “Nice knife.”

“You ever used one before?”

“Nope.” Sarah decided not to tell Jo that she hadn’t been raised around weapons, that she was still kind of clumsy with a firearm, that sometimes she was afraid that it would take her too long to learn how to be proficient with one and that, one day, it was going to get her killed. “You want to teach me?”

A big smile, the biggest Sarah had seen in a while, lit up Jo’s whole face as she hopped down from her stool. “Come on out back.”

The first thing that Jo showed Sarah was how to take care of a knife, how to keep its blade razor sharp with the right stones. As she watched Sarah work, she said, “So you were in the auction business, huh? How was that like?”

“Rich,” Sarah said. 

Jo threw her head back and laughed, flipping the knife from blade to handle and catching it. “How’d that work out for you?”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Sarah’s fingers ached deep in their joints from how she circled the stone against the blade Jo had loaned her.

Jo settled deeper on her stool, legs flung wide over the edges of it, arms straight and taut with flexed muscles as she bent at the waist—arms bearing the bulk of her weight—so that she was a little closer to Sarah. “How’s it different?”

“Breakfast is earlier, and I don’t have to work out in a gym anymore.” She’d actually put on weight. Ten pounds of lean hard muscle.

“That’s it?” Jo said.

Sarah shrugged. “People are people, no matter where you are or where you go.”

Jo didn’t say anything after that, just showed her how to shave hair off her arm to test the sharpness of the blade. She stared up at Sarah from under the gold fringe of her hair swooped low on her forehead, her lip curling into something like a smirk and a dare.

Sarah followed suit, sweeping the blade across her arm, shaving off the hairs in a smooth cut and slide that gave her chills and goosebumps. Jo grinned at her, nodded, then showed her how to hold it, loose and firm at the same time, until it was part of her arm, ready and waiting. Jo taught Sarah how to lunge with it, stab with it, carve with it until the moon had risen and the stars shone and Sarah caught glances of the mother looking out the window every now and then, cloth polishing and cleaning glasses, and she wondered if Jo was supposed to be doing something else, but never mentioned it because the mother didn’t seem to have a problem with them together and besides, they were all adults here.

Then Jo showed her how to wield it, body flush behind Sarah’s, shifting and maneuvering in, hands guiding Sarah’s arms, harder at first and then lighter and lighter until Sarah made the motions on her own, without assistance. Jo’s hand slid up Sarah’s calf, lifted her foot by the ankle with the other when she helped Sarah find her center, her balance.

Jo finally suggested they fight each other with an “I’ll go easy on you,” and Sarah licked her lips and said, “Okay. Bring it.”

They went slow at first because Sarah still sucked and Jo was still proficient like she was born from the womb clutching her own little pocket knife, but that didn’t matter. Jo flowed towards her, muscles lithe and sleek like a panther coiled to strike, and Sarah held her blade like Jo had taught her. “How’d you get those scars?” Jo said, then she flushed like she hadn’t meant to say it, and it had just slipped out when she was too busy looking at Sarah’s face because figuring out the best way and place to attack was more important than social niceties.

“Not in a knife fight that’s for sure. Monster went boo at me,” Sarah said, and she gave Jo a smile because she didn’t mind the question, because she wanted to see that beautiful grin of Jo’s, the kind that was so real it hurt a little to look at it.

“And did ya boo it right back?”

“Well my gun did,” Sarah said. “Does that count?”

“Close enough,” Jo said, ducking in close and pushing her against the wall of the Roadhouse. “Doesn’t matter as long as you’re the one that’s alive and it’s the one that’s dead.”

Sarah used muscles she hadn’t even been properly aware existed. Aches crept up her arms and down her legs, and maybe Jo noticed how she was slower now, stumbling a little when before she had been sure, and so she said, “Hey. You can’t learn everything in a night. Why don’t we have a beer, huh?”

“But your mom—”

“She won’t mind,” Jo said, winking. “Come on.”

So they went into the empty roadhouse, and Jo pulled out a chair for Sarah. Jo went to the back for the alcohol, then leaned over Sarah’s shoulder from behind as she set an opened beer in front of her, and, if Sarah looked close enough, she could see the trail of smooth skin the knife had left when Jo had tested the sharpness of it. They were both streaked with dirt, from when Jo had hooked her leg around Sarah’s and tugged, toppling them both to the ground. Sarah still remembered how, beneath her, Jo’s chest had collapsed in an explosion of laughter that had quickly turned into stuttered gasps for air as Jo shoved her off. Then they both had just lain there for a few minutes, limbs and muscles and insides splayed open as they looked up at the stars on a night where there weren’t any monsters lurking in the shadows.

Sarah stood, so that they faced each other. “Why did you do all that? Why do you give me free drinks, free lessons on the correct and proper and deadly way to wield a knife? You don’t even know me.”

“You’re a hunter,” Jo said, reaching out and touching Sarah’s scars. “That makes you family.”

Sarah blinked. She had forgotten about family. Family was Dad always doing something to turn a profit, even if it was below the belt and inappropriate and in bad taste. Dad had never played ball with her or went to any of the art shows the students at the school put on. But some random stranger taught her how to move with a knife, and Sarah still didn’t know why, it didn’t make sense.

Then Jo leaned forward, pressed their lips together, before hanging back, eyes wide and raised eyebrow punctuating the look with a question mark. Sarah’s lips parted open because Jo was beautiful in that moment, with her eyes searching every inch of Sarah’s face, her mouth open in that teasing, open grin that dared for more, that dared to want more, and her body was hard and lean with muscle, soft with skin silked with sweat and gritted with dirt. Sarah pulled Jo closer by the nape of her neck, threaded her fingers through her long yellow hair, and kissed her back, mouth open, tongue already whispering for permission against Jo’s.

They rocked their hips, pressing and rubbing themselves against their mons, tongues sliding and curling around each other in time, Jo reaching deeper and farther back while Sarah nipped at Jo’s lip until Jo twisted Sarah around, holding her against the wall. She stopped kissing Sarah’s lips then, dipping her head until she tongued the hard edge of Sarah’s collar bone, nibbling and circling her way up the slope of Sarah’s neck until she dragged her tongue over the deep, jagged scars across her face.

And even though Sarah couldn’t feel a lot of sensation on those scars, the pressure with which Jo licked them, scraping her teeth against them and the surrounding area of skin that wasn’t wounded, stoked heat in her belly that curled and lapped upwards, until it was too hot to breathe, until her breath scudded somewhere in her throat, and she couldn’t so much speak as moan because Jo fucking loved her scars and wasn’t afraid to show it.

She surged against Jo and they toppled to the ground again, and Jo laughed again, and this time Sarah joined because she had Jo’s arms pinned over her head, and Jo let her do it, let her suckle at her neck where her pulse throbbed against her tongue, at the point that strung Jo’s body so tight beneath her that her muscles shivered and trembled against hers as red and purple bruises blossomed underneath Sarah’s lips.

Her other hand reached down Jo’s body, slid up under Jo’s tank top until she found her bra, and she scraped her fingernail across the cup, the faint edges of Jo’s nipple palpable underneath the fabric as she coaxed it to hardness. Jo giggled, squirmed beneath her, gasped, “You fucking tease.” She wriggled her wrists out of Sarah’s grip, put one hand over Sarah’s and pushed it down hard, while the other one snaked behind her own back and unhooked her bra.

The material was loose in Sarah’s hand so she pushed it aside, shoved Jo’s tank top up and over her head, and bent down, licking a stripe from one breast to the other, suckling on a nipple while her hand cupped Jo’s other breast, kneading the sensitive underside in tight circles. She worked her fingers slowly upwards while the heel of her hand continued to press rhythmically against Jo, cupping and squeezing and releasing until her fingers rubbed circles around Jo’s nipple, until the other nipple beneath her tongue was hard and erect, red with pressure and blood, slick with spit. When Jo whimpered, when Jo pushed herself against Sarah, arched against her, shoulders thrusting against the floor for leverage, for more pressure, Sarah pinched one nipple while biting down on the other with her teeth.

Jo flung her head back against the hard floor of the roadhouse as Sarah twisted and licked, hard sounds edged with laughter coming from her as she wrapped her legs around Sarah, pulling and pressing them close together, with just Jo’s hands between them as she pulled Sarah’s shirt over her head, unsnapped her bra deftly, then unbuckled her pants, pulling them down low even as Sarah did the same with her.

Sarah shifted herself forward, tilting herself as she dragged her clit and wet lips, still covered in thin cotton underwear, along Jo’s inner thigh up the hard edge of her hipbone, knee and thigh pressed hard against Jo’s wet center. Jo rubbed herself up and down as she played with Sarah’s breasts, thumb flicking the tips of her nipples because every time she did, Sarah rubbed harder, more forcefully against Jo’s hip, fingers tracing soft patterns in the sweat that settled in the dip of Jo’s navel, that shone along skin that slipped downwards into Jo’s mons, and, if she pressured that area with the heel of her hand, Jo arched into her, face glinting into smiles that shattered and remade themselves before Sarah splintered them again and again into open mouthed moans.

“I’m gonna come,” Jo panted, pinching and twisting Sarah’s nipples so hard Sarah pressed her knee harder in surprise against Jo until she came, body shuddering beneath Sarah, legs tightening and lengthening until her entire body was taut, stiff with heightened nerves and engorged blood vessels, strumming with energy and endorphins before she shuddered, relaxing and melting under Sarah still going against her hip.

Jo reared upward, tangled her fingers in Sarah’s hair, pulling her back until her neck was an exposed, graceful arc beneath Jo’s mouth as her other hand crept down below the elastic edge of Sarah’s cotton underwear, fingers circling the nub of her clit before reaching down further, stroking her inner lips while her thumb rubbed her hood. Sarah tried to gasp a warning, but she shook underneath Jo’s hand, voice catching somewhere in her throat under the red flush that spread down her breasts, and Jo licked it up, tasting sweat and dirt and salt against Sarah’s skin as Sarah clung to her, butt in her lap, legs entwining around her waist.

Sarah combed her fingers through her hair, working through each tangle until Jo’s hair was glossy golden, massaging Jo’s scalp as Jo worked her tongue over the knotted muscles in her shoulders. Sarah could feel Jo smile against her neck, the hard edge of her teeth a blunt pressure against her skin.

And when the mother, from the next room, yelled, “Joanna Beth get your ass to bed right now,” Jo rolled her eyes before whispering, “Oops.”

“Oh god,” Sarah said, as she shifted from Jo’s lap, then helped her to her feet, “I didn’t realize your mom was—I mean.”

“She wasn’t,” Jo said. “I heard her come back in to check in on me long after we were done.” She gave Sarah that dazzling bright grin. “Normally, I’d be pissed because, come on, I’m a big girl now, big enough to make decisions about who I fuck and when I get to bed, but—” and she stretched, her abdominal muscles undulating with the motion, her breasts rising and becoming more full with the movement, and Sarah felt tender pressure start to grow and wind itself down from her belly straight to her clit, but Jo had already stooped to snap her bra back into place, lifting and cupping her breasts so they’d fit nice and snug. “But I feel too good to complain, you know?” She shimmied into her tank top. “But those are probably the endorphines speaking—I’ll be pissed tomorrow.”

“Don’t be,” Sarah said, shrugging back into her own clothes.

Jo paused on her way out, leaning against the wall with one elbow, the other on her hip. “Why’s that?”

“Because we’ll have more fun if you aren’t,” Sarah said.

And Jo laughed at that, then said, “Where you sleeping tonight?”

Sarah remembered that she hadn’t intended to stay at the Roadhouse this long, that she was supposed to have found a dirt cheap motel on the side of the road. “My car, probably.”

“Well that’s dumb,” Jo said, darting forward and tugging her by the hand. “You can sleep with me, if you want. It’ll be a good and entirely fun way to get back at Mom for interrupting us.” Sarah would have protested, but Jo was an adult and so was she and if Jo wanted her to sleep with her and if Sarah didn’t want to sleep in her car, then what was the harm?

Sarah stayed for a few days until there was news of a hunt and she decided to take the case. Jo gave her one of her knives, and made Sarah swear to take care of it, and Sarah so swore, crossed her heart and everything.

Sarah came back to the Roadhouse when she could. But when she found out that Jo had left, and had left without telling Ellen or her anything, she felt heavier inside, and an ache chewed at her gut and her heart until she ran into another hunter from somewhere else who told her that Jo was hunting on her own now, and last time he had seen her was in Indiana.

She found Jo because Sarah was a hunter, which meant more than just killing monsters. And, after they were exhausted and naked on a bed with the covers torn off, Jo said that she hadn’t told Sarah because she needed to hunt on her own, she needed to claim that space for herself—as her finger pads played across the scars on Sarah’s face like they were violin strings—like Sarah had.

So Sarah left the next morning.

They sent postcards. Jo told her she met her first demon, but she didn’t say whom it possessed. Sarah made Jo tell her everything she knew about demons so that Sarah would be prepared when the moment ever came, if it ever came. Jo told her that she and her mom were talking again, that they were hunting together, and it was like Ellen had finally acknowledged that Jo had finally grown up.

Sarah tried to meet up with Jo, but there was always something pulling her away elsewhere, and Jo and Ellen followed the same trails that so rarely crossed each other.

Then the next thing Sarah heard was that Jo was dead and it was the end of the world and that Jo had died to save it. But, even as she carded her fingers through her hair, pulling at the short ones that curled at the base of her neck, trying to breathe against the tightness that squeezed her lungs and heart and made her brain short circuit with fragments of words Jo had said to her, of shattered smiles and the way Jo’s knife flashed in the light as she flipped it, she knew that of course Jo would die saving the world.

By then, Sarah knew the exorcisms spells by heart. Sarah knew which sigils repelled demons and which ones kept them where she wanted them to be. The apocalypse whetted her until she was sharp, her entire body a honed edge which cut through demons and monsters, saving people and hunting things no matter how small, no matter how out of the way.

When neighborhoods ripped themselves apart and the hunters whispered “war,” she slowed down. She forced herself to look, to think, to question first and fire later.

When communities ate each other and themselves, and the hunters whispered “famine,” she collapsed to her knees, and desperately wished she were anywhere but here in this time, that she could sleep until she died. But that wasn’t possible and, hungry for better happier times when all she had to worry about was a haunted painting, she went outside her motel room, and made sure she smiled at the person on the other end of the counter without letting herself think that the poor bastard was going to be killed by demons or by weather incurred by the apocalypse in days, weeks, months, it just didn’t matter.

And when the croatoan virus ravaged the globe, and the hunters whispered “pestilence,” Sarah found herself carving her way through dozens of infected trying to get to a pocket of men and women and children, survivors who didn’t know how to forge their bodies into weapons, people who struggled ineffectually, their mouths open and water on their faces.

She brought them together. She taught them how to fight like Jo had taught her how to fight. They established their own kind of community and sometimes she was in contact with another community of survivors run by a Bobby Singer and a Dean Winchester—and it took her a moment to register the name because it had been so long and the boys had only mentioned their last name once at the most—and she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Sam, the adorable boy who couldn’t bear to let anything happen bad happen to the people around him, wondered how he was handling the apocalypse as the world died around the few centers of struggling civilizations left.

And when the people she had gathered together wondered what the use of it all was, why shouldn’t they just sit down where they stood and just wait for death to claim them through hunger and dehydration and the lost will to live, Sarah asked them why they thought the devil would do this, why the angels would let this happen. And when they shrugged their shoulders and cursed at her and told her to shut the fuck up because her pep talk didn’t fool anyone ever, she said that the devil was afraid of them.

And when they laughed at her, she said the only reason to obliterate something is because of fear, that the devil feared them because, despite his power, despite his angelic status, despite his empire in hell and destruction on earth, there was more to them, a muchness that had been denied the angels and the demons.

It was this bit of them, the part that wasn’t angel or demon but human in its complexity and its muchness that they feared, because humans were bigger on the inside than the outside, so damn big that any angel or demon could lose themselves in it if they weren’t careful (and Sarah figured that one angel at least had already lost himself in it, fallen in it, if the word that an ex angel of the lord was hanging with Bobby Singer and Dean Winchester was to be believed).

Then one day the devil came down, breezed in with his demons and his white suit and his white loafers and, when he finished decimating the people Sarah had tried so hard to save and feed and to make unafraid, when his demons had dragged Sarah kicking and gagged because she wouldn’t stop saying exorcism spells, he turned around, and Sarah’s eyes widened because she knew this man back when his eyes were warm and his face was soft and new and young.

He lazily waved his hand, and the gag disappeared. “Sam?” she whispered.

“No,” the man who was Sam but wasn’t said, tapping his temple with his finger. “But he’s in here. He’s screaming for you to run, even though there’s no place to go.” And his face dimpled into an  _isn’t that just the sweetest_  expression that was spoiled with futility and sarcasm.

The man lifted his arms, his mouth open, and Sarah didn’t care what he was going to say. Didn’t care that this was the devil and she was just a mere mortal, just something made of organs and flesh and tissue and bone—spun glass, fine and fragile like porcelain, faint and fluttering as cotton candy. She ripped herself out of the loosened grip of the demons who had dragged her there, launched herself at the man in white, and she didn’t know if she wanted to kill the devil or to reach the man inside, the man who had shown her a brave new world.

But, in the moments before Lucifer raised his hands, fingers rubbing together in the beginning stages of a snap, Sarah realized that she wouldn’t have known what to say. That there was nothing to say. And, in the final brief seconds before Sarah’s death, Sarah thought of all the people she had failed to save, all the good in the face of evil she had tried to do that had remained undone, and she thought of Jo and, for a brief moment, she wondered if this was how Jo had gone, in an explosion of blood and guts, leaving nothing behind but memories and noble intentions.

Sarah opened her mouth, but the only word that came out was, “Boo” and then she was gone, a splatter on the floor at the feet of the devil.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t decide if I wanted Sarah Blake to die at the end because women die on Supernatural all the time, and I think that’s a problem. But um. I really just don’t see it happening any other way. I mean. And don’t even get me started on the ending, I don’t know where that came from, but it seemed to fit, especially since I got the feeling earlier in the Provenance episode that Sarah Blake is playful, and that there can be a bit of edge to that playfulness. Or maybe I’m just deluding myself. Maybe I shouldn’t write post-midnight /ever/.
> 
> And why did I set it in the 2014 verse? Because in apocalypse stories, there are so few women who are the leaders of any kind of survivor group that I wanted to address that sort of invisibility, especially in SPN.
> 
> This is also like the first time I’ve written porn purposely for the purpose of showing it to people in a public place. It’s very embarrassing and I’m not sure I’m doing it right and I’m not sure why I want to do it—my sexual experiences have been few and far between and all of them have been unpleasant and none of them have been female so I’m not even sure why I’m into the whole porn thing but ugh, all the stupid things.
> 
> I’m not sure why I’m sharing this publicly. If it’s terrible or if I did it wrong or did it offensively, let me know and I will take it down, I’ll take it all back, and I’ll fix it and make it right.


End file.
